


On the Accumulation of Hats

by BadassIndustries



Series: Canon Era Shenanigans [2]
Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era Shenanigans, Continuation of On the Necessity of Drama, Courfeyrac tries to flirt with a pretty girl and gets interrupted by his ridiculous friends, F/M, Gen, Jehan and Bahorel being ridiculous, No Angst, a lot of weird hats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-30 22:29:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20454581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BadassIndustries/pseuds/BadassIndustries
Summary: Courfeyrac liked to spend time in the sun, lounging in parks or terraces, enjoying sweet treats and watching Paris flow by around him. Frequently, this pastime gives him highly valuable insight in the minds, hearts and fashions of his countrymen. It was the last one that seemed rather unusual today.Adorablecrab prompted me with "Jehan and Bahorel with increasingly ridiculous hats" and now this exists, written in one day because the idea wouldn't leave me





	On the Accumulation of Hats

Courfeyrac liked to spend time in the sun, lounging in parks or terraces, enjoying sweet treats and watching Paris flow by around him. Frequently, this pastime gives him highly valuable insight in the minds, hearts and fashions of his countrymen. It was the last one that seemed rather unusual today. A vaguely familiar gentleman sauntered by carrying a cane with a very shiny knob and a very fanciful hat and far too much confidence. Aside from this strange appearance it had seemed a normal day. The sun shone on the terrace cheerfully. Ladies wore their shawls loosely and their smiles brightly. Courfeyrac had charmed a charming grisette into allowing him to pay for her pastries. Her name was Estelle, she was a milliner’s assistant and had the most delightful saucy smile she had the sad habit of hiding in her handkerchief. Courfeyrac was devoting his time and cheerfulness to making her laugh enough she’ll forget to hide it. It was a delightful pastime and shining sun and fresh tartes au citron topped it off to make a perfect afternoon. With every cheeky compliment she laughed a little broader, returned his flirtations a little more sweetly. Singing her praises made her eyes sparkle and her cheeky replies made his heart swell.

“But surely, Mademoiselle Estelle, you will not argue when I say that your charm shines like the stars on a moonless night. Your very name is poetry. Truly, every man on this street would wish to be in my place at this moment.”

She laughed at him, lips quirking and eyes flashing, but she still turned her face away from him. More convincing – or flattery— will be needed. Courfeyrac looked to the street to find a likely example to support his argument. He thought he saw Jehan Prouvaire, half obscured by an awful floppy hat and running out of view quickly. With a small smile for his friend, Courfeyrac inspected the rest of the crowd. Instead of a likely student to give as an example of jealousy, he found Enjolras, carrying a bundle of hopefully legal material. His cravat was a knot and there was ink on at least one of his sleeves, Courfeyrac just knew it. Despite those sad sartorial offences, Courfeyrac knew better than to call the attention of a girl he was trying to charm towards Enjolras. No good would come of it. Ladies would either form expectations and embarrass Enjolras or expect to be flattered and get offended when Enjolras would not properly appreciate their beauty. Or worse, a girl Courfeyrac had been enamoured with a few seasons ago had well-hidden political aspirations and when he had introduced her to Enjolras who had called on Courfeyrac at the wrong moment, he had lost her to a two hour discussion on Olympe de Gouges. Worse, Enjolras had been entirely insensible of any wrongdoing when he had escorted the lady to his own apartment to let her borrow a few of Combeferre’s books. Enjolras was just so terminally incapable of seeing when a fellow just wanted to make nice with a pretty girl and not have his company drawn away, no matter if that diversion of attention happened because of angelic looks or political debate. At this moment, the sunlight was illuminating Enjolras’ hair into a halo of gold, but luckily this enchanting display was happening behind Mlle Estelle’s back. She was smiling at him through her curls, the ribbons and cherries in her hair shining gaily in the sun. Courfeyrac was moved to poetry. His talent with the quill showed in prose and speeches, though he adored romance put to rhythm when penned by superior authors. Fortunately, great poetic talent was not required here. All he wanted was to make himself agreeable and make Estelle smile.

“I will prove it to you. I was not born under a rhyming star and yet your beauty has compelled my heart to speak in rhyme.”

She graciously allowed him to hold her hand as he gazed soulfully into her eyes and recited his silly flattery to twinkling eyes.

_“Mademoiselle Estelle, mais vous êtes belle._

_La Mam’selle j’adore c’est laquelle_

_Dont le sourire me rappelle du ciel._

_Donc ma belle Estelle ne soyez pas cruelle._

_Montrez-moi cet sourire si belle,_

_Parce que quand je le vois, je me sens comme j’suis au Paradis Eternelle.”_

He finished with a flourish, kissed her hand gently and looked up into her eyes. She laughed. She laughed loud, happy and with abandon. She smiled that saucy smile he adored giggled right into his face.

“A poet you are not, M’sieur.”

Courfeyrac burst out laughing. Several people around them turned to see what caused their shared hilarity. Courfeyrac looked around to see how many people had taken notice of his impromptu poetry. No one he knew was close enough to have overheard, but around the corner came Jehan Prouvaire, wearing a different hat. Courfeyrac must have been mistaken before, apparently there was more than one man in Paris who thought yellow tights were à la mode. Jehan was wearing a dark hat with a wide brim, which was at least better than the atrocity the other yellow-legged fellow was wearing. He waved at Jehan, who waved distractedly and hurried away. Estelle turned her head elegantly to look at Prouvaire’s retreating figure, displaying her lovely neck to best advantage. Courfeyrac smiled to himself. Even bad poetry could work wonders, if employed properly.

“And who was this?” asked Estelle archly, turning back to give him her full and undivided attention.

“A dear friend of mine, Now, he _is_ a poet, writes sonnets fit to make you weep from the tragic beauty of it all.” He reached over and brushed a flower petal from Estelle’s voluminous sleeves.

“Ah,” said Estelle merrily, “I see. You are too well-dressed to be a poet.” She laughed again and Courfeyrac glowed from her merriment and the satisfaction that she had noticed the cut of his new coat. A passing man of broad stature called out a hallo from some distance, breaking the moment. Courfeyrac started to raise wave towards the man but lowered his hand again quickly. He had thought it was Bahorel, but Bahorel was not generally given to wearing opera cloaks in the afternoon, so it must have been someone else. Probably an actor.

“You have a lot of friends, M’sieur,” said Estelle, looking up at him through her lashes. Since she was quite as tall as he was, not even counting the Apollo Knot in her hair, this was quite an accomplishment. Courfeyrac sighed in admiration of such artful coquetry.

“Life would be a sad affair without friends,” he replied, a tad distractedly. There was Bahorel, possibly again, this time adorned with a tricorn hat with a large trailing feather.

“There’s another of my friends. If you’d permit me, I would introduce you.”

Bahorel was generally safe to introduce to ladies. He was well-dressed, charming, and unlike Grantaire, he never made eyes at other people’s mistresses unless they really ought to be liberated from truly unworthy men.

“Bahorel!” he called out.

“Another poet?” Estelle teased as she turned to take in Bahorel’s appearance. His boots were buckled an matched the opera cloak, but not the hat.

“Courfeyrac, my friend,” boomed Bahorel as he approached their table, “good day to you! And what a day it is! Victory will be won today!” He grinned broadly. There was a fading bruise on his jaw.

“A beautiful day indeed. Mam’selle, may I introduce my friend Bahorel. Bahorel, the lovely Mademoiselle Ferrrier has not objected to make your acquaintance, despite your current apparel. Isn’t that excessively kind of her? Whyever are you wearing that hat, my friend?”

Bahorel laughed loudly in answer and bowed to Estelle in a manner that must have been calculated to make his cloak billow behind him.

“Delighted, Mademoiselle. Can’t stay and chat though, sad to say, we’re preparing a little something, I’m in an awful hurry.”

“And what may this ‘little something’ be?” asked M’selle Ferrier with a smile Courfeyrac was gratified to see wasn’t the saucy smile he had been so pleasantly employed in coaxing from her.

“A little tribute to the Arts,” answered Bahorel with an alarming smile. His idea of ‘the arts’ encompassed rather too many ghastly things in Courfeyrac’s opinion. Pleasant parties needed no skulls at all, if you asked him. But Bahorel believed firmly that adding something grotesquely dead made any party a good deal livelier.

There was a yell from a few streets away and Bahorel quickly turned to look. He visibly bit back a curse out of consideration for the lady and hastily bowed his goodbyes.

“Must run, sorry to leave you, have a lovely day!” That last was accompanied by a wink that luckily did not offend Miss Ferrier’s sensibilities.

“Your friends are certainly interesting, M’sieur,” said Estelle, following Bahorel’s retreat through the crowd with her eyes.

“That they are,” said Courfeyrac, doing the same. There, opposite from where Bahorel disappeared, was Jehan _again_. And now he was wearing a true monstrosity. Some brightly coloured concoction, the feverish dream of what some tortured milliner thought medieval turbans ought to look like. Courfeyrac could not take it anymore and called Jehan over.

“My dear Jehan, please put me out of my misery. I have seen you at least twice, wearing a different costume each time. The same for Bahorel. What is going on?”

He kept the plaintive air out of his voice only through sheer willpower. The turban had a trailing shawl that clashed so badly with Jehan’s waistcoat it was nearly actively painful to Courfeyrac’s sensibilities.

“Davide,” replied Jehan, narrowing his eyes dangerously. “He’s at it again, but this time we’ll beat him so soundly he’ll never dare show his face in our circles again.”

With this pronouncement, which did not illuminate anything as much as Jehan seemed to think it had, he flung the loose shawl and of his medieval turban over his shoulder and stalked off in the direction Bahorel had gone too. Courfeyrac and Estelle turned back to each other, to share the confusing and laughter they had been repressing.

“Who,” said Estelle in between peals of laughter, “who is Davide?”

“I haven’t a clue!” cried Courfeyrac and fell into laughter again. They laughed for a good while about the absurdity of it all and Courfeyrac had ample opportunity to admire Estelle’s gorgeous smiles until her laughter died down. After wiping the tears from her eyes, Estelle sobered and said the words Courfeyrac had been dreading and hoping to put off for a good while longer..

“I really ought to get home, can’t spend my entire half-day on idle enjoyment.”

Courfeyrac, who was a great fan of idle enjoyment, pouted. “No really Mademoiselle, the day is far too lovely to spend it indoors. Please allow me to escort you to the park instead. Precious jewels out to be displayed, not hidden in dusty drawers.”

Estelle laughed again, but she was also blushing faintly. She stood elegantly and accepted the offer of his arm. They maintained a whispered conversation as they walked towards the park and the marvels Estelle poured into his ear where so wholly absorbing Courfeyrac did not even notice when they passed a young man throwing his fanciful hat to the ground in anger. He did however, notice Bahorel and Prouvaire hanging on to the wall to keep from falling down as laughter overtook them too.

**Author's Note:**

> This was going to be poetrysmash, but Courfeyrac wanted to flirt with a pretty girl and outside perspectives are fun. Also I attempted French poetry and then threw grammar out of the window so I could have everything rhyme with Estelle~
> 
> I advise those who are still confused about Davide to read my story On the Necessity of Drama (chapter 1 of Saved Snippets)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
